


A Year In A Century

by KA_BA



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Angst, Here we go, Other, Time Travel, Wild-Centric, actually there’s not really an ending at all, and a little bit of Comfort, angst???, back to the future - Freeform, no happy ending, sorry :)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22837045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KA_BA/pseuds/KA_BA
Summary: Whatever happened to our dear Hero of the Wild during his restoration process? Time stops for no one and the months of the year are the many slaves who take care of time’s bidding
Comments: 3
Kudos: 47





	A Year In A Century

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely not the most straightforward work I’ve written. I hope it’ll make enough sense for people to read the whole thing. I’d like to hear y’alls interpretation or understanding of it, if you’d like to comment what you think about it! I hope you enjoy!

With January, only honesty is ensured. Wild could only come as he is, if he didn’t, they would rip away everything he knew he wasn’t. A hero, a knight, a champion. He didn’t have to be any of that; that wasn’t him. January made sure he knew. January’s embrace is cold, but it only took so much warmth from Wild before he and January were one in the same. It was a relief like nothing else. He tried not to get so hung up on it when they left.

February says very little, so Wild holds onto the words she does say; writes them down, saves them. She is fascinated by the things he does, the things Wild never notices. When she holds his hand, Wild pauses and breathes until she’s gone. She’s gone so quickly. He misses January. Stop missing January.

March is not quick to make friends. Try as he might, as the weeks passed on, Wild could not find him if he looked. He figured March would find him, and he did. He approached so quietly that Wild hardly hear him. He had one word to say, one very important word, and Wild didn’t like it. But Wild would never say that to his face, assuming he ever saw it. He knows March is damageable just like him.

April wants to take him far away from winter. She grabs him by the wrist and pulls him into her bright and buzzing world. It’s exhilaraion just to be with her. She guides him along, she speaks the rhythm, the chain of command. It’s a dance designed for forgetting the silliness of winter. Wild joins her. It’s a dance he doesn’t want to forget.

May tries harder than anyone else to make him forget. They offer him all manners of wines and sweets and each one is better than the last. He’s satisfied for the first time he can recall; he...doesn’t seem to be able to recall much now. Everything is beautiful. All his needs are met and he almost misses the feeling of needing something. Despite how much wine he drinks, the feeling remains.

June gets it. June keeps telling Wild that he gets it. June’s air is frantic with the pull of summer. It swarms his head. Wild misses January, he knew he shouldn’t, but he does even more so than ever. January left and took a piece of him, and now June was hurriedly rearranging all of Wild’s other pieces in an attempt to fill him back in. Wild has to tell June to stop before he becomes unrecognizable; Wild hardly recognizes his own voice. When June leaves, Wild has no idea how to put himself back.

July carries him across the shore, away from the place they can never return to. He’s bleeding; from the empty spaces time has left in Wild some kind of blood is falling. July holds him as he hovers over sleep. July knows not where he is going; August calls from no singular place and July drifts out to meet her. Wild sees the many places time has reached and, out of the corner of his eye, the blurs of the places it hasn’t. Wild feels safe enough to close his eyes for awhile, he needs the rest.

August keeps his eyes locked with hers. He wanders in some sort of fog, the heat pulling him away from the ground in waves that twist his vision. He sees August. Everywhere he looks, he sees her. Every sound, every sound, every smell, every good and warm feeling becomes August. January exists only as a pang of guilt in his stomach. He is hopelessly August's. “Don't fight it,” something tells Wild. Not that he would.

September holds his arm with an unspoken ferocity before August can walk away with him into times unknown. It is not cold, but he shivers. Nothing fits into his field of vision. But September takes good care of Wild. Wonderful care. He'd much rather stay with September. He can’t seem to make it last but he doesn’t give up. He won’t give up. Don’t give up.

His eyes seem to blink only once and October has already taken the place of September. “You’re ready.” He says. He takes Wild by the hand and brings him back home – except this isn’t his home. It is where he has lived all his life but it isn’t home to him anymore. October let’s Wild crash at his own place and tells good jokes. It all bounces right off the surface, though, making only an entertaining ripple, but nothing more. It starts to get cold again. Wild’s thoughts run away from him. October doesn’t know how to fix this. Neither does Wild.  
“Don’t give up.”

November watches Wild closely. She doesn’t say much. She knows what lies ahead and doesn’t want to tell him. He sees indifference in her. She wants to let him heal. Wild falls apart inside himself; his mind feels like it’s shattering and he still doesn’t know how to fix it, only how to watch it fall apart. He feels like a turbulent mess and the world around him is only getting slower. Wild misses January. He misses January so bad he could hurt something. The pieces inside him are sharp. He takes one, turns it over in his shaking hands, looks kindly at November and watches how she says nothing out of fear.

December can’t do anything for him. Time is frozen, January is an eternity away, and December can’t be January no matter how hard they try. They can’t heal him; their touch is too coarse. They can’t fix him; he’s missing the most important piece, his memory. They can’t take him back to January; January is far in the past and the future has dropped off like a cliff.  
But December can see what Wild’s been through  
And they can feel the frostbite setting in. And they can hold him  
Closer and closer every second  
As tears of their own hit his flesh like ice And Wild grows colder, and colder still Being pulled in further and darker down Until deep down,  
He and December were one in the same.


End file.
